


His Limits

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't copy to another site, Early Days, Forbidden Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Sherlock Holmes, flatmates to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21533647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Not once did I ask myself if this was the man I would go to hell and back for, or wonder if he would do that for me as well. It would not have occurred to me that there could be such a person. I had shut myself off from sentiment, living a life of ascetic isolation. There was no one in the wide world who would ever care for Sherlock Holmes that way. This is the only way I can explain those early days when we were adjusting to one another. I simply did not think such a person was possible.Or: How Holmes met Watson.This is the first part of a Victorian AU series. There is an overall arc to the stories, but each story can be read independently.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 36
Kudos: 126





	His Limits

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the early events of A Study in Scarlet. I have borrowed ACD dialogue in several places, but you may blame me for the plot.

It was in the early days of 1881 that I met John Watson.

I had been living on Montague Street for several years without complaint, but a new landlord had taken over the building and raised the rent, with no corresponding improvement in the rooms. Scouting about for a new home, I found the building on Baker Street and knew at once that I was meant to inhabit these airy, modern rooms. They were not much more expensive than Montague Street, and easily large enough for two to share. The problem, again, was money. I just was beginning to establish myself as a consulting detective, but making a name for myself was not the same as making money. As I was partly dependent on my brother’s generosity, especially in months where I had few cases, I went to him for advice, with some reluctance.

“Take a flatshare,” he suggested.

My habits at this time were somewhat ascetic. Being used to my own company, I preferred it. I was not sure what type of man would be seeking rooms with a flatmate, whether he might be a lonely, talkative fellow who would not leave me alone to work on my experiments, or if he might be outgoing, bringing home friends to drink liquor and play cards. What I hoped for was a quiet man who would not spread his possessions all over the place, a courteous man without eccentricities, a person whom I could safely ignore.

None of these things happened because I could find no one willing to live with me.

I had spread the word among acquaintances that I was seeking someone to share the rent, and had especially avoided telling people who knew me a bit too well, lest they scare off any potential flatmates. Stamford was one such fellow I told of my search. A new anatomy instructor at Bart’s, he was genial and not overly fastidious, with no unpleasant habits that I could discern. My own habits he might have suspected, had he been a suspicious type of fellow. Fortunately, he was neither suspicious nor overly observant. I would have happily shared rooms with him, had he been looking, but he was inconveniently about to be married.

Inconvenient for me, but not unfortunate for him. I suppose he saw me as some sort of mad scientist with a side-hobby of solving murders. I hoped he would mention me to people who would not mind these things.

It was through him that I met Watson. Our meeting came about as follows.

I had been in the lab at Barts, working for weeks on a test for haemoglobin, the one presently in use being clumsy and unreliable, and had, I thought, just found a reagent precipitated by haemoglobin and nothing else, an infallible test for bloodstains. I was just preparing to replicate my final trial when Stamford entered with a companion.

“Dr Watson, Mr Sherlock Holmes,” he said, introducing us.

I confess that I did not pay much attention to the man at first, so excited was I by my success. I remember babbling, explaining the importance of my discovery, noting the dark blue eyes that regarded me seriously. Laughing, I grabbed his hand to demonstrate the process, determined that he would admire me when I had done so.

I dug into my finger with a bodkin and drew a drop of blood into a pipette. Once I had added it to the water, I pointed out that it was virtually clear, having the appearance of pure water. When I added the reagent, the fluid instantly turned reddish-brown, and it was possible to see brown matter precipitated in the glass jar.

I crowed in triumph and waited for his praise.

He looked almost aghast, then smiled awkwardly. I know that I have a tendency to be dramatic, and he might have assumed that I was joking. Calming myself, I began to cite cases that might have been decided differently, had my test been used.

Still smiling stiffly, he murmured polite congratulations. Stamford broke in with a comment on my knowledge of criminal cases. _Police News of the Past,_ he jokingly named the paper I might start on that subject.

He’s a harmless fellow, Stamford is, and meant no insult, so I did not take offence at his remark. At this point I finally took a good look at his companion. I felt my face grow hot with embarrassment. The look the man was giving me was pure astonishment.

I found a plaster for my finger and muttered something about dabbling in poisons, not wishing to poison myself inadvertently.

Fortunately, Stamford began to explain their errand. “Watson here is looking for someone to share diggings with,” he said. “I thought I’d better bring the two of you together.”

 _Dr Watson_ , he had called his companion. A medical doctor, I assumed. Obviously a military man. An army surgeon, then. Wounded, from the way he held himself and limped a bit. Recently ill, judging by the sallowness under his tan.

Instead of going through the entire tedious chain of deductions, I said, “You have recently been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”

This produced another look of incredulity. Inwardly I cringed, realising I had overstepped yet again. Social interactions have always been difficult for me; reticence alternating with blunt honesty is my usual style with strangers. This man did not know me, and I was not sure how much Stamford had shared. He might think me a lunatic, or maybe an eccentric. Maybe both were true. I studied his expression, wishing that thoughts could be as easily deduced as trades and infirmities and travels. Dr Watson might be thinking he would rather not room with me, I decided. He would be polite, and then back away from my offer, making some excuse.

I was forced to admit that he was a handsome man, this army surgeon. His eyes were of the deepest blue, his hair a natural blond, and though he was terribly thin from his recent illness (enteric fever?), he carried himself with a quiet strength. Like many army officers, he wore an impressive moustache. But he was no dandy. His clothing was shabby, evidently on its last season, and I wondered if he had resorted to second-hand shops to outfit himself. Wounded, small pension, embarrassed to be out of work, and feeling useless.

We exchanged information— best to know the worst about one another, I told him— and made an appointment to meet at the flat so that he could make a decision. Part of me was praying that he would not show up. I was not sure why; I am not a praying man. And the other part of me was fervently hoping I hadn’t put him off.

I hated my confusion. My own nature has long been clear to me, though for many years I did not know what to call it. As I came of age, it was never women who attracted my attention. I always found myself admiring the boys of my own year and those slightly older. Without words for it, I sensed that this was deeply wrong, and that I should not ever say the things I felt. I was certain that I was a freak, feeling things that would have horrified those who knew me. To the extent I was able, I pretended to be like other boys, interested in sports and games and pranks, but always felt my efforts only served to widen the gap between me and normality. Though I developed attachments to various boys, and clung to the fringe of their circles, I was never really accepted into their society. I was lonely.

Attraction I had felt, and infatuation. I had indulged my inclinations a few times, but abstained once I realised how degraded it made me feel, and how that shame affected my thought process. I managed, using laudanum as a kind of anaesthetic for my feelings and cocaine as a stimulant to my mind. I could live like this, I decided; I would be solitary, eccentric, and not care how people judged me.

I did not know what I was feeling when Watson showed up to see the rooms. Agitation seemed to have co-opted my body, making me babble and flap like some ungainly bird. I laughed and said too much about things that did not matter. Had I been in love with him, I could not have appeared more ridiculous. Thankfully, I have forgotten most of my idiotic utterances. I do not know whether he thought me a strange bird, but he agreed to move in with me.

Not once did I ask myself if this was the man I would go to hell and back for, or wonder if he would do that for me as well. It would not have occurred to me that there could be such a person. I had shut myself off from sentiment, living a life of ascetic isolation. There was no one in the wide world who would ever care for Sherlock Holmes that way. This is the only way I can explain those early days when we were adjusting to one another. I simply did not think such a person was possible.

He was more ill than he presented, restless at night and exhausted during the day, often sleeping in his chair by the fire. Both eating and elimination were difficult for him; this embarrassed him terribly. Rarely did he go out, and when he did, he returned home drained and weak. I felt protective of him, seeing how he struggled to hide his pain and weakness. A proud man, he clearly hated being an invalid.

He continually apologised for his laziness, as he termed it, though he was clearly still experiencing the effects of illness. He was not hard to live with, but I could see curiosity in those dark blue eyes that followed me around the flat when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. Just as I had sized him up, he was attempting to deduce me.

He did not write letters. No family or friends, then. Sometimes he wrote in a notebook that he kept on his desk. I wondered what he wrote about, and because I am an incurably curious, overstepping idiot, I read it one day when he was napping. He had jotted down a list, and the title startled me: _Sherlock Holmes — his limits._

In his own way, he was attempting to deduce who I was. His method was orderly and logical, but founded on incomplete evidence. I chuckled as I read _Nil_ penciled in next to the items _Literature, Philosophy, Astronomy._ In his eyes I was an incompletely educated man with limited knowledge on a number of specific subjects. I suppose this was true, but our conversations on most topics had been limited. Nevertheless, he probably saw me as an egotistical poseur, pretending to know things I did not truly understand. I admit that there are areas where I am out of my depth, but never where it touches my profession. Chemistry, anatomy, geology are all subjects I can legitimately claim expertise in. The other items on that list, however conversant I might be in those topics, don’t matter. Why should I remember things that have no relevance at a murder scene?

He noted my interest in sensational literature. I kept it no secret that crime was a topic I had explored in depth. I knew every detail of every horror perpetuated in the past century. Perhaps this was not something to brag about.

 _Plays the violin well_ was Number Ten on his list, but he was obviously a man who could not tell Pyotr Tchaikovsky from Arthur Sullivan. If he truly understood anything about music, he would recognise that I play the violin _brilliantly_.

That evening I made a point of playing particularly difficult pieces. When I had ended my little concert, he looked up from his book. _Brilliant,_ he said, smiling. I rewarded him with ten minutes of Gilbert and Sullivan.

I saw no sign that he was looking for another place to live, so I assumed that he accepted my limits, as he saw them. Even in his weakened state, I could see his caregiver instincts in the way he fussed about my sleep and eating habits. He did not enjoy being the patient.

I grew used to him. Secretly, I rejoiced to have him to myself, while I could. I had little doubt that his recovery would mean more time away from the flat in the society of others. Women would find him attractive, men would enjoy his company. He was the kind of man who would have a club and a regular circle of friends. He would receive invitations, circulate socially, and be introduced to eligible women. Eventually, he would take up a medical practice, marry, have children, and become a responsible citizen.

My mind often went down this path— so often that it became a highway. I coveted the man, and hated my desire. It was not mere physical desire, though, and this galled me. I did not like feeling so disordered.

Our first weeks passed mostly in silence. My flatmate’s own limits were clear. I am an untidy person, leaving my things in disarray, but my experiments bothered him the most, I think. For my studies, I routinely obtained body parts from the morgue at Bart’s. This was done with permission, and my experiments were always aimed at finding a solution for a problem encountered while on a case.

As a doctor, I suppose, it bothered Watson to see parts of dead people treated in such a careless fashion. I, however, have never had moral qualms about my experiments. Had they known how their fingers and livers and bruised skin helped me solve murders, I am certain that most of my donors would not have minded. But Watson cringed at seeing their parts in our icebox or breadbox or in an acid bath in the sink. I thought of asking him how medical science knew about the inner workings of the human body, if not through dissection and the examination of dead humans.

This line of questioning would not have been productive in the way I wanted. On the contrary, it would have produced a chain of increasingly angry assumptions, ending in a declaration that there were limits, _dammit_ , and Watson could not be the man to question a dead person’s wishes.

It was hopeless, I suppose. I was attracted to the man, but unwilling to give up my habits, especially those which he did not know about. I was a user of cocaine and morphine, an experimenter on dead bodies, a ruthlessly analytical man who did not spare time for gentler feelings. As a scientist he might have understood, but as a doctor, a surgeon of the battlefield, he could barely stifle his outrage.

Worst of all, I wondered how he would feel about sharing rooms with an invert, a man of unnatural inclinations. I endeavoured to hide my feelings.

One morning he awoke early, coming into our sitting room before nine, and I saw that his night had not been restful. Sometimes, I was aware of his nightmares, but had not embarrassed him by asking about it. This morning his eyes were red-rimmed and hooded, with dark shadows beneath, and he could scarcely drag himself to the table, even with his cane.

I rarely say things just to fill the space, but the room felt heavy with his unhappiness, and this made me uncomfortable. I felt a rare need to chatter.

“Well, Watson,” I said.

Frowning, he gave me a dark look. Mrs Hudson, our landlady, entered at that moment, and he gave her curt instructions that he was ready to eat.

“You’re up early, Doctor,” she said mildly.

“Coffee,” he replied with an impatient wave.

I tried to think of something to say that would not be inane. He picked up a magazine and began paging through it. Silently, I munched my toast.

As it happened, I had marked a page in this magazine because the article on that page was my own. In it I had attempted to explain my somewhat unorthodox method of discovery, which I called the Science of Analysis and Deduction. When I saw him begin to read the article, which was entitled “The Book of Life,” I held my breath, waiting to see what he would say about it. I’m afraid I was ridiculously vain about having the article published, and hoped that he would admire it.

Several minutes went by. I watched his eyebrows waggle, tried to decipher what they were telegraphing. “Rubbish!” he cried at last, tossing the magazine aside. “I have never read such ineffable twaddle!”

This I had not expected. “What is it?” I asked.

“This article— obviously the work of some arm-chair lounger who has no practical experience, but thinks he can discover a man’s inmost thoughts from a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye. No doubt he evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. Not practical in the least. I’d like to see him on a third class carriage of the Underground, asked to give the trades of all his fellow travellers. I’d lay a thousand to one against him.“

“You would lose your money,” I said, barely controlling my fury. “As for the article, I wrote it myself. It is my trade, the means by which I earn my bread and cheese.” I paused, but was too angry to stop my tirade. “Perhaps you would have noticed my areas of expertise, had you not been so appalled at my ignorance of the solar system. Yes, I saw your list, your pitiful attempt to deduce my _limits_ , as you call them. Maybe you should stick to medicine, Doctor.” I almost added an admonishment to _heal thyself,_ but managed to control my tongue.

With these words, spoken with a coldness I did not truly feel, I fled, not waiting to see his reaction. I went out the front door, allowing it to bang behind me, and began walking.

In my agitation, I did not notice where I was heading until I found myself in Pall Mall, near my brother’s living quarters.

Of all people in this world, my brother knows me best— and least. We are of very different temperaments. His powers of observation exceed my own, but he is too lazy to do detective work, preferring to sit in his rooms, reading, writing, and running the British government. He is logical to a fault, and a complete fatalist. Once he has collected all relevant details and deduced an outcome, he can see no other possibility. Many of those outcomes have been my own failures, as he loves to point out. I weighed these abilities and shortcomings as I stood on the kerb, deciding whether to go inside.

My misery won out. I asked for him at the concierge desk and was invited to go up.

He greeted me with the same cool composure he always exhibits. I felt a wreck, and tried to hide my distress. I wondered for a moment why I had come here, what I expected him to tell me, but it was too late to make up a credible excuse.

I sat, and he deduced. “What has he done?” he asked after thirty seconds.

I was too exasperated to ask how he knew the source of my consternation. Unlike me, he does not feel the need to impress by describing his methods. “He is insufferable.”

Mycroft steepled his hands before his face and studied me. This was a pretence; he had already deduced all that he needed to know from my face and demeanour. “Most people are,” he said.

“You have no idea,” I sputtered with indignation. “He criticises my methods.”

“You should be flattered,” he replied. “Most people would not understand your methods well enough to venture an opinion on them.”

“He does _not_ understand,” I rejoined. “He called it rubbish.” I glared.

“And if he had smiled and nodded and said _brilliant!_ \-- you would have called him an idiot all the same. Sherlock, do calm yourself.” He motioned to his man, Geoffrey, to bring tea. Or perhaps brandy. I have never bothered to learn his system of hand gestures.

“You said I should take a flatmate,” I said. “Having done what you asked, I am now asking for advice. I cannot live with this person.”

He smirked. “You’re in love with him, then.”

I could now expect him to remind me that love is a most foolish proposition, a chemical defect found on the losing side, a sentiment which he has advised me to avoid, as he himself has wisely done. He would recall the shameful infatuations of my youth and their disastrous consequences.

“Oh, do shut up, Mycroft,” I said. Not a very persuasive argument, but I was beyond persuasion at that point. “Why must I be tormented with army doctors who cannot grasp my methods?”

“You liked your army doctor well enough when you met him. And he has improved since then, at least in health.”

“Though healthier, he is more disagreeable,” I said, wounded. “He called my work _ineffable twaddle._ ”

“I see. He has wounded your pride. Do you care so much what this _insufferable_ man thinks?”

“What does it matter? I cannot abide him. I need you to help me get rid of him.”

“Are you planning to murder him? Poison, perhaps? Asphyxiation? Either would be tidier than pushing him out the window, I suppose.” Mycroft carried on smirking. “And, supposing you prove your case to a jury of your peers, do you imagine people lining up on Baker Street to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes?”

At his mockery, I made an incomprehensible noise, meant to indicate impatience.

“You are an acquired taste, brother, an _insufferable_ man who generally frightens people off before they can get to know you.”

I was silent, having nothing to explain.

“I am right,” he said, rubbing his hands together in a manner that suggested triumph. “You are attracted to him. That annoys you to such an extent that you are now looking for a reason to drive him away. I advise you to reconsider. He tolerates your eccentricities better than most would, and he is making an effort to accommodate your experiments.”

“I don’t want— or need— to be _tolerated_.”

“Oh, you want to be _loved_?” His smirking reached a peak, then morphed into a rueful smile. “Go home and apologise. Tell him you over-reacted, that you were emotional because of some trivial thing or another, and that you wish him to stay.”

“I don’t want to be loved,” I grumbled. “And why should I apologise? He insulted me.”

“My dear brother, insults do not matter. They are not engraved in wood or stone or any other material. Insults are merely sentiments, things you should ignore.”

“Oh, what do you know about the man? He is—”

Mycroft raised a hand, silencing me. “He is a wounded army veteran, a surgeon who can no longer practice the trade he spent years learning, a man who is probably in constant pain.”

At this, I fell silent. My brother, as usual, was correct. I had failed to do the very thing that I had accused Watson of. I remembered his irritable manner at breakfast, probably a result of a bad night’s sleep— or no sleep at all. His disrespect was not what it seemed, I realised.

I did not give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing that he was right. I frowned and irritably bid him a good day. By noon, I was back at Baker Street, hoping my doctor had not taken offence at my petulant words, but still uncertain how I was going to manage my feelings.

I came through the door a bit eagerly, hoping he would be sitting in his chair, as usual, reading a book or napping.

Instead, he was standing near the door, his suitcase and doctor’s bag nearby. A bit stiffly, he inclined his head and spoke. “I will forward my monthly contribution before it comes due,” he said. “Please accept my apologies for my earlier behaviour. You did not deserve—”

“You’re leaving?” I gaped. The apology was unexpected; his leaving unacceptable. “My dear man, do you think me so petty that I would let your honest opinion hurt my feelings?”

He hesitated. “You seemed angry.”

“Tut, it is nothing. Think of it no more. I can scarcely blame you for your irritability, considering how disagreeable I have been. Please, let’s forget this quarrel and return to good humour and friendly relations.” I did not want to say, _let us be friends again,_ because I was fairly sure this was more than Watson had considered us to be. I did not want to say, _please don’t leave,_ because I could not have said that without clinging to him. He would not need to be a genius to deduce my feelings if I did that.

“Holmes,” he said uncertainly. “I am happy to remain, but only if it please you.”

I waved my hand airily. “Dismiss it from your mind. Let us be as we were.”

A cup of tea sealed our agreement. Two British men do not need a long discussion to carry on being what they are. We were both a bit formal that evening, dining on Mrs Hudson’s lamb stew with slabs of fresh bread. He retired early, claiming fatigue.

I fell asleep on our sofa, where I was endeavouring to think. I hadn’t a case to occupy me, so I was thinking about Watson, wondering if I should have simply let him move out. That would have solved my difficulty, but not my economic situation. Now we would continue in our silence and awkwardness, and I knew it would not be long before he began to find me intolerable once more. It was depressing to think about. I really ought to have found a cheaper flat.

I didn’t notice that I’d fallen asleep, but I became aware that I was startling awake, my heart pounding as if someone had screamed _murder_ in my ear. In a moment, I realised that is nearly what had happened. Someone had screamed. I sat up, and then heard Watson moaning and crying out in his room, as if he were in the throes of a nightmare.

Having been admonished by my brother to consider the man’s pain, I silently made my way up the stairs and waited breathlessly outside his door. His screams had given way to sobs, I could hear.

“Watson,” I said quietly.

The sobs were muffled, then ceased.

“Watson, are you all right?” I took a chance, cracked the door open.

“Holmes.” His voice shook. “I’m sorry to have awakened you.”

“I was awake,” I lied. “Forgive my intrusion. Are you in pain?”

He sighed. “It was a nightmare. Do not concern yourself. It will pass.”

I hovered in the doorway, feeling dismissed, but not wanting to leave him like this. “Watson, I must apologise to you. I have been most inconsiderate of your pain. When you said you were moving out—”

“Nonsense.” His voice steadied. “It was not because of you that I wished to move out. I offended you, but that is only part of the problem. My health is bad and battle fatigue has sapped me of any good humour and energy I once had. Having no money for entertainments, nor any desire to go out and do things, I am a gloomy companion, not fit to live with others. I wonder if it is not better for me to live alone, in whatever rooms I can find.”

He was handing me the solution to my problem. If he would move out, I could forget him. But instead of agreeing with him, I found myself pitying him— not a condescending pity, but a real sorrow for what he had been through, and what he had to look forward to. He had no doubt hoped to find a flatmate who would treat him kindly and help him adjust to civilian life. Instead he had obtained a petulant, egotistical idler who did nothing to accommodate his infirmities.

“No, Watson. It is I who am unfit for human company. I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious human being that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. Forgive me. I will try to be more considerate. I do not want you to leave.”

He did not speak for a moment. In the darkness, I could see his body lying under the coverlet, but his face remained in the shadows. “Perhaps we deserve one another,” he said at last, his voice quiet and resigned. “I will stay, then.”

I returned to my room and lay in my bed, thinking of Watson lying upstairs in his room. I thought of his limp, the deep sigh when he would sink down into his chair, the arm that he could not raise, and the look on his face when he forgot and reached for something with that hand. I wondered about the scar he kept carefully hidden. I imagined him in his scarlet coat, a vigorous soldier accustomed to action. I pictured him doing surgery on the wounded, easing their pain and suffering. The man he must now see in the mirror was a pale shadow of that soldier. I wanted to know that man, and hoped he was not forever gone.

My attraction I had recognised. This feeling was something new. It was a selfless sort of yearning to see him healthy and happy. It was a desire for him never to leave. I wanted to see him smile— even if those smiles could never be meant for me.

My feelings were more clear to me now. I was not merely attracted to John Watson; I wasin love with him.

The following day we were again rather stiff and silent with one another. He was polite, and I returned his politeness. I wanted more, though. I wanted to laugh with him and talk of books, take him out to dinner or the theatre. I longed to walk in the park with him, his arm tucked under mine. I wanted him to be my friend.

I wanted much more than this, of course, and had at several points in my life obtained that where I could. There were gentlemen’s clubs that catered to my proclivity. I had sworn off of that sort of thing, having decided that morphine was preferable to risking my career and possibly my freedom at an illegal club.

As the afternoon wore on, Watson announced that he would not be home for dinner, that he had plans to meet a friend. He put on his best suit, a worn tweed that he’d had taken in because of his weight loss, took his shabby coat and hat off the rack, and wished me a pleasant evening. I listened to his limping footsteps pass through the door and into the chilly March night.

I brooded. I imagined him sitting at Simpson’s with an old army buddy or school mate, telling them what an impossibly rude flatmate he’d gotten stuck with. In my mind, I could almost hear the stories he’d be telling about the body parts in the sink, the chemical smells, the untidy piles of books and papers— and about me, myself, lying about on the sofa in my dressing gown, sunk in my own thoughts. Their laughter I imagined, too.

My traitorous mind pictured other scenarios as well— walking arm-in-arm down the street, as intimates do, or sitting in our darkened rooms in perfect contentment. He would smile at me, raising his face, and I would lean into him, kissing him, holding him close, feeling his arousal—

Unable to quit my fantasies, I dressed and went down to hail a cab. I instructed the driver to drop me on Foley Street, a couple blocks from the Byzantium.

As I came through the door, I was nervous. To any person who might stumble onto these premises, it appeared to be no more than a club, like a hundred other in the city. The exclusive amenities required specific knowledge that would open a door to stairs leading up, into a more intimate setting. There a visitor could find tables and waiters ready to bring drinks, good-looking, pleasant men who fancied other men, and rooms where one could retreat with a companion for more intimacy.

I nodded at the man who sat by the door to the stairs and made the sign, hoping that it hadn’t altered in the year or so I’d been away. He gave me a nod, allowing me to pass.

I knew what I was looking for, a man of military bearing, blond (if possible), moustached, handsome, a lonely man of quiet dignity and muted pain. All of these qualities I did not expect to find. There could be no man like my Watson in this place of illegal passions. I was a wretch to even think of him while contemplating such acts. He would be revolted, horrified at the twisted man who shared his rooms. He was not like me.

But my body needed what my heart could not have. I would indulge myself and keep my secret. I would let a stranger pleasure me, trading those few minutes of sublime pleasure for days of shame, until my need once more overwhelmed my restraint, and I found myself here again. This cycle would repeat indefinitely.

In this demoralised frame of mind I entered the upper salon, determined to quickly get on with it and return home. The room was not crowded. Most of the men were paired off, though a few seemed to be still considering their options. This was how I remembered it, men eyeing one another, telegraphing their interest with smiles, nods, raised eyebrows. They would chat about trivial things, and when there was an unspoken accord, one would cock his head and say: _Would you…? Shall we…?_ These sentences were always unfinished in a club like this. It may be that in alleys and grimy rooms on some other street, men would be more direct and speak more crudely, but here we maintained the illusion that we were all gentlemen, even as we contemplated savage acts.

I saw a blond head alone in at a back table and made my way towards it. As I drew nearer, I stopped in my tracks.

Watson.

I contemplated flight, but at that very moment he glanced up and saw me. He smiled. It was a sad smile, a recognition that we shared the same unspeakable vice. He nodded, indicating that I should sit.

“You said you were meeting a friend.”

“I have no friends, Holmes. Is that not evident?” His eyes went down to his drink again, staring into the amber liquid. “I came here hoping to meet someone.”

“Oh.” Realisation suddenly hit me. “I’m sorry. I’ll move somewhere else so you can, erm…” Awkwardly, I rose and began to search for another table.

“Sit down, Holmes. You see, but you do not observe.”

“Observe?” Nervously my eyes darted around. “Watson, you should not feel obligated to sit with me just because I’m here. I have no wish to ruin your evening. You came to meet someone—”

“I came here to meet someone because I reckoned you would not be interested in a broken-down army doctor with a limp who wakes up screaming every other night.”

My mouth may have wagged soundlessly for some moments. “But. Watson.”

At my dumbfounded look, he laughed. “I was not sure you were an invert, but suspected. Regardless, you could obviously do better than me— much better— and were clearly uninterested. At least, that is what I assumed. Perhaps I have not deduced correctly.”

“Indeed, you have not, Watson. Had you not cast aside my article as _rubbish,_ you might have deduced that men with our secrets rarely wear their hearts on their sleeves, but they often wear green carnations on their lapels.” I indicated the flower I had pinned onto my own lapel.

His eyes widened, those lovely, sea-dark eyes, and he licked his lips. An unconscious gesture, no doubt, but it sent a shiver down my spine and into my groin.

“I am… a cripple. Did you follow me here, and now pity me because I sit alone, without a partner?”

He said this with no bitterness, but his bluntness nearly shattered me. “We’re all cripples, my dear,” I replied. “In one way or another, we are all damaged. I did not follow you. I came here because I thought I could not have you.”

Tears filled his eyes.

I reached across the table and took his hand. An innocent gesture, a forbidden one. “I want to kiss you,” I said. “Will you let me?”

He nodded. I moved my chair closer and leaned in. He raised his face to meet mine, and our lips met. It was chaste, as kisses go, but promised much more.

“Not here,” he whispered. “I want you to myself.”

“You shall have me,” I said, kissing him again. “Let’s go home, Watson.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” Watson said. He rubbed a hand across his eyes.

We were sitting in our chairs, facing one another in front of a cozy fire. Tea had been made, the process for doing so having been sorted out, and was now being consumed, because that’s what two English gentlemen do when there is too much to say and the right words don’t present themselves.

“You don’t know how to do… what?” I thought I knew, but needed him to say it. If we were to become what I predicted we were about to become, there could be no misunderstanding between us. We must be honest, even when silence was more comfortable.

He stared into the dregs of his cup. “They gave me a nickname, you know,” he said. “Three Continents. Because of the… erm… the women.”

“Women.” I regarded him with what I hoped was composure. “You’ve never been with a man.”

“There weren’t even all that many women,” he said quickly. “Women just seem to…” He made a gesture with his free hand. “I can’t explain it.”

“You’re a handsome man. Of course women flirt with you. It would be surprising if you hadn’t had conquests.”

“There weren’t many. Not three continents’ worth, by any measure.” He closed his eyes and shook his head ruefully. “Once you’ve acquired a reputation, it just takes off. A life of its own, you might say. I’m not saying I’ve never… with a man… but it wasn’t a thing I really… just if I drank a bit _…_ ” Sighing, he opened his eyes and looked at me. “I’ll be honest. There were men, too. We just never… in a war zone, you know… not much privacy. And sex with lots of men doesn’t produce the same kind of reputation, if you take my meaning. Not a reputation one would preen oneself over. It was frowned upon, so we were careful.”

I nodded. “I understand. You have a dual nature.”

“But I preferred men to women. Always. Even so, I thought that when I came back to England, I’d settle down, marry, and forget all that. Youthful indiscretions, I counted them, which could be left behind. Obviously I hadn’t considered what being wounded might mean. I almost died.”

“Your wounds in no way detract from your appeal, Watson. You need not fear that I will find your scars repellent.” Indeed, I was rather eager to see them.

“I mean…” He huffed, closed his eyes again. “When I believed I was dying, I considered the life I had planned for myself, and I realised what I really and truly desired. All my relationships with women were superficial. I did what I was expected to do— flirt and court and regard them as candidates for Mrs Watson. When I lay in that hospital bed, thinking I might die, I made a decision. I would lead an authentic life. If I truly fell in love with a woman, so be it. I would propose and see if she agreed. But if I fell in love with a man, I would commit myself to him, though it be illegal. I would no longer pretend to be something I am not.” Smiling almost shyly, he glanced at me. “And then I met you.”

I felt my face flush. “So, you’re saying that this is not merely a conquest.”

“I’m saying… I feel… _blast_.” He looked up at me with those lovely dark eyes. “I mean that I love you, and I want everything with you. Not just hands in an alley, or pleasuring one another with mouths. I want _everything_ I’ve never had.” He looked away, embarrassed once more. “I mean, if you want— I will take whatever you can give, and am willing to give as much in return.”

I set down my cup and stood, holding out my hand to him. “Right now, I only want to be with you. I want to lie naked beside you, to touch your scars, to let you see all of me. There is time for everything. Tonight, let us become acquainted.”

Once we had disposed of our clothing and lay in the bed together, both of us panting a bit, kissing was our first lesson. It was as if we were learning each other, bit by bit.

“John,” I said breathlessly. “May I call you that?”

He smiled against my lips. “I’ve been longing to hear my name on your lips, and to speak yours, Sherlock.”

“John. I must confess that I haven’t actually… hands, mouths, yes. I mean I understand the mechanics of it, but… we’ll have to figure this out together, I think.”

“Like an experiment,” he said. “Just promise me that you won’t stop to take notes.”

“I promise.” I pulled him closer. “Shall we begin our research, Doctor?”

Our first time was frantic, glorious, and too soon over. We giggled like boys, talked for hours, and then took one another again, more tenderly this time.

With some trepidation, I whispered that I loved him.

“I will be true, my love,” my Watson said. “I commit myself to you here and now. Whatever may come, we will face it together.”

“Together,” I whispered against his moustache. “We will not be parted.”

There were no nightmares that night, nor many in the nights that followed, not for a long time.

And so began our life together.

**Author's Note:**

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